Reverenda Rosatag:typepad.com,2003:weblog-12826702008-05-21T19:55:29-04:00Living in the borderland, ministering y buscando la cara de DiosTypePadWhat the....??????tag:typepad.com,2003:post-502407762008-05-21T19:55:29-04:002008-05-21T19:55:29-04:00I made the decision to support Barack Obama months and months ago. I did so without hestitation or remorse right after I watched Bill Clinton's show after the South Carolina primary. My decision was cemented by the "It's 3 o'clock...Rosa Lindahl

I made the decision to support Barack Obama months and months ago. I did so without hestitation or remorse right after I watched Bill Clinton's show after the South Carolina primary. My decision was cemented by the "It's 3 o'clock in the morning" ad. I simply did not consider that Hillary Clinton was the right candidate for the Democratic party.

I like to think of myself as a pretty clear-eyed feminist who knows sexism when she sees it and has learned a lot about how you fight and effect change. I still have scars to show for earlier battles..Perhaps for that reason, I have really resented the way Hillary Clinton used the sexist card when it behooved her. The effects of sexism are simply too painful to make it a "political bat" like I consider Hillary Clinton has done. But all the drumbeat over the past few weeks about how sexist this race has actually been has been making me ask, "what am I not seeing? What am I missing? Have I let myself be seduced by a pretty young man?"

This morning we wrapped up a diocesan conference/retreat I was required to attend. It was appropriate to celebrate the Eucharist. It had been put together to allow for some spontaneity, which by and large, is a good thing after a lot of conversation, engagement, work and community building. Except that, during the Peace, the 3 clergy who would be concelebrants were selected. All of them were men. And there we were, in a room where certainly half of the clergy participants were women. What the ^&%$???? The flash of anger that went through our small gathering was silent and incredibly polite. We simply carried it, like we always have. I forced myself to go up to receive communion after another woman clergy leaned over and said to me, "remember even if it's human hands that blessed, the blessing was still in the name of the Holy One".

One person ahead of me, another clergy sister, received bread and when it came time to take the chalice, someone indicated that she was to take the chaliceto finish giving communion. And when I received, I was given the paten to continue the distribution of the bread. Each time a woman stood before me, I fought back tears and said, "my sister, the Body of Christ" It took me a while before I found myself capable of saying to the men as they received, "my brother, the Body of Christ." And then, I had to face into the fact that all the facilitators of Conference were men (there had been 1 woman but she was not able to attend) and all of the "helpers" were women. I was and am so angry about having to deal with that old anger again.

I am still not willing to say that Hillary Clinton is losing in the quest to be the Democratic candidate because of sexism. But tonight, I feel real solidarity with the women who support her who see in what's happening, those old habits of a sexist culture that have kept us in our bad place for way too long. Rosa the "theoterrorist" of my seminary years claimed my body at the end of the Eucharist and I raised what had happened with the conference leader. I was even more pointed in my evaluation. We--women of all sizes, shapes and stripes, must continue to call it when we consider that a situation is being informed by sexism. Some of the time we may be wrong. But way too much of the time, we are still right.

New Week Dotstag:typepad.com,2003:post-500516502008-05-18T18:28:12-04:002008-05-18T18:28:12-04:00Spouseman's back after a week on the road. He went to a reunion of gunship pilots who flew in Vietnam and to visit his mama in Selma. There are these places he goes to which are so totally outside of...Rosa Lindahl
<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><ul><li>Spouseman's back after a week on the road.&nbsp; He went to a reunion of gunship pilots who flew in Vietnam and to visit his mama in Selma.&nbsp; There are these places he goes to which are so totally outside of our life together and my experience.&nbsp; Marriage--what a concept...</li>
<li>Light of My Life celebrated her 12th Birthday.&nbsp; I get glimpses of the young woman she will soon be--she amazes and delights me.&nbsp; Today, she was an acolyte and sat next to me; quiet, self-assured.&nbsp; At one point she reached over and just took my hand and held it.&nbsp; </li>
<li>I go off to a conference at Lake Placid tomorrow--not something I'm thrilled to do but a requirement for my diocesan grant.&nbsp; I'll be driving through some of the areas where there are a lot of wild fires here in Florida.&nbsp; The weather is eerily hot and dry.&nbsp; It should be hot and very humid.&nbsp; In the past, hot, dry May's have been followed by active, very active hurricane seasons.&nbsp; And hurricane season is less than 2 weeks away.</li>
<li><em>I cannot </em>believe that Huckabee made a joke about guns pointing at Obama.&nbsp; I cannot believe there isn't more of an uproar.</li>
<li>I broke down and paid a pretty penny to get a bunch peonies that now grace my bedroom.&nbsp; I still miss Spring...</li></ul>
<p>&nbsp; </p></div>
Mothers and Daughters, Revisited, Again...tag:typepad.com,2003:post-499278582008-05-15T16:34:23-04:002008-05-15T16:34:23-04:00It seems like the pattern is just too cruel: hurry up and wait some more as cancer continues to exact its price on my mother's life. Twice she's come right up to palliative care. Twice, her oncologist, with her warm...Rosa Lindahl
<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p>It seems like the pattern is just too cruel:&nbsp; hurry up and wait some more as cancer continues to exact its price on my mother's life.&nbsp; Twice she's come right up to palliative care.&nbsp; Twice, her oncologist, with her warm voice and caring eyes, has presented logical, compelling, seductive arguments for trying &quot;one more thing&quot;.&nbsp; Each of them has brought its own particular brand of hell.&nbsp; Both times, the cancer has slowed down, though not as much and for a far shorter amount of time.&nbsp; Now, literally, her bones are snapping at different tumor sites.&nbsp; The chemo she's on is so corrosive her finger nails are falling off, her mouth one enormous sore, all the way into her throat. In two months, she's had maybe 4 or 5 bearable days.&nbsp; And even with all that, today I read with disbelief as my dad tried to make the case that even though my mom wants to stop the chemo &quot;we really need to wait and hear if the doctor has some other chemo options she suggests.&quot;&nbsp; </p>
<p>I don't know what the answer is.&nbsp; I think of him, almost 81 and very alone except for my mom.&nbsp; I think of my own self and imagine that if I were watching Spouseman die, every extra minute, every extra second that I could look in his eyes, or touch his face, or feel the warmth he'd left behind on a pillow, would feel like an eternity of joy.&nbsp; And we've only been married for 20 years, not 50.&nbsp; No, there is no condemnation or bitterness in that disbelief.&nbsp; There is the simple, undeniable truth that now my mother is suffering.&nbsp; Not uncomfortable, not in some pain, not losing some quality of life.&nbsp; My mom is suffering and more than anything, I don't want her to suffer.&nbsp; I want it to stop...</p></div>
A Special Kind of Angeltag:typepad.com,2003:post-497284222008-05-12T07:45:28-04:002008-05-12T07:45:28-04:00I checked in at my friend Cathy's webpage yesterday. Cathy is a special ed teacher who kept having IEP meetings--lots of them--even as she struggled with a bout of laryngitis. IEP meetings are hugely important to children with special needs...Rosa Lindahl
<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p>I checked in at my friend Cathy's <a href="http://www.cathyknits.typepad.com/">webpage</a> yesterday.&nbsp; Cathy is a special ed teacher who kept having IEP meetings--<em>lots</em> of them--even as she struggled with a bout of laryngitis.&nbsp; IEP meetings are hugely important to children with special needs and their families.&nbsp; &nbsp;I am not surprised she did that.&nbsp; Special Ed teachers, at least the ones I know, are a special kind of angel.</p>
<p>For months, Spouseman and I have struggled to keep fear in line, looking ahead to the options Light of My Life was facing coming to the end of 5th grade.&nbsp; &nbsp;Middle School is an <em>awful</em> concept as far as I'm concerned.&nbsp; Why in heavens name isolate and magnify the very worst of puberty into one institutional concrete box?&nbsp; I remember going through that period in a school that ran from pre-k to 12th grade. Being part of something bigger helped even 7th and 8th graders keep a sense of perspective.&nbsp; Middle School doesn't.&nbsp; I've heard the really good middle school teachers say they don't even worry about what middle schoolers learn, as long as they can keep them positive, engaged and motivated.&nbsp; There's so much bullying.&nbsp; I could go on and on.&nbsp; In our case, it also means the end of a truly magnificent support system for our child with special needs.&nbsp; All the cost-cutting and disinvestment in education, at least in Florida, means that getting to middle school means pretty much being told &quot;you are on your own; sink or swim&quot;.&nbsp; I struggled with the possibility of homeschooling my child, I kept trying to figure out what a viable alternative might be.</p>
<p>Then about 2 weeks ago, Spouseman and I met with her Special Ed team.&nbsp; We were able to discuss our concern that a child who looks, acts, thinks and is the size of about a 7 year-old, having to navigate classes and halls, having to be completely mainstreamed after 4 years in a special ed cluster, is being set up for monumental failure.&nbsp; We acknowledged that because LoML was retained in the 3rd grade, she would normally not be eligible to be retained another year.&nbsp; But we laid out why that was the best option we could find.&nbsp; </p>
<p>Here's the thing.&nbsp; We were in a room surrounded by people with heart.&nbsp; It is so easy to dismiss these school folks as bureaucrats.&nbsp; But there were people with heart and genuine love for our daughter talking through alternatives, running into some dead ends, stopping, pulling back, looking at other options and hanging in with us to find the way we could best serve this funny, beautiful, fragile child.&nbsp; In the end, we had a plan that felt so incredibly right and good for LoML that it blew us all away.&nbsp; The whole room was literally giddy.&nbsp; As we got ready to leave, LoML's ESE specialist&nbsp; a tall, lanky, quiet guy who remembers LoML at one of her very worst moments of behavioral meltdown, hugged me with tears in his eyes.&nbsp; &quot;I can rest now because we've done right by her.&quot;</p>
<p>Spouseman and I thanked everyone.&nbsp; We got back in the car to leave and both just wept.&nbsp; So, to my friend Cathy, who had no voice but was still the voice of little kids who really have no voice, I say thank you.&nbsp; To our friends at Stephen Foster and the Broward County School System:&nbsp; thank you.&nbsp; The light is still stronger than the darkness.</p></div>
Pointing into the Windtag:typepad.com,2003:post-496966802008-05-11T06:29:26-04:002008-05-11T06:29:26-04:00Sailing teaches a lot about wind. Imagine going out through the cut at Port Everglades on a sailboat—let’s call it the good sailing vessel Promise. Next to the cruise-line behemoths, you feel like you are floating along in the shell...Rosa Lindahl

Sailing teaches a lot about wind. Imagine going out through the cut at Port Everglades on a sailboat—let’s call it the good sailing vessel Promise. Next to the cruise-line behemoths, you feel like you are floating along in the shell of a little robin’s egg, a toothpick for a mast. Most sailboats have motors strong enough to keep you moving but they’re no match for the big, bubba, macho man power boats that roar by, leaving you bobbing this way and that in water. The sea does its bit to remind you that you are only one six billionth of the human story, one microscopic speck in the history of creation.

So you get out past the cut, where the water is so beautifully blue it hurts your eyes, and you look for a patch a little bit away from where the action is.

When Spouseman and I sailed, my apprehension would grow as we got to that place. I wanted to keep that weak and known diesel engine going. I kept trying to postpone the inevitable—I’m too nervous, it’s too choppy here, why are you pushing me so hard, give me some space. But I could not postpone the inevitable for long. If you are going to sail, you have to raise the sail. And you cannot raise the sail unless you are steering directly into the wind. Spouseman's job was to raise the mainsail. With my heart in my mouth, I’d power down the engine to almost nothing and grab onto the wheel for dear life, trying to stay on course.

The sailors with us today can describe much better than I what that moment is like. The wind, even if it is only a breeze, roars and pops in your ears. The sail going up adds another layer of sound—snapping and crackling, while the sheet banging against the mast contributes its own clanging. The noise engulfs you and if you are a fraidy cat like me, you are sure that at any moment you are going to be swamped and die because even if the wind is only blowing at 8 or 10 knots, those are monster swells racing directly towards the vessel. That moment is the essence, the absolute manifestation of chaos.

Here is what has never stopped amazing me. A split second later, as soon as the sail is up and the sheet secured, when all you do is turn the wheel to a slightly different point of sail, there is this faint whooshing sound as the sail fills, it’s flapping stilled. The crackling in your ears stops. You turn off the motor, which really was obnoxiously loud and smelly, and all that chaotic, seemingly pointless sound and fury finds its voice and rhythm, as the boat begins to move and gains speed, powered through the water with the invisible grace of the wind.

The beginning of the story of Pentecost as told by Luke in the book of Acts captures something of the chaos of wind: “When the day of Pentecost had come, the disciples were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting.”

Fifty days had passed since the crucifixion and resurrection. Even with the Risen Christ among them, the small, improbable, ragtag bunch of people who had followed Jesus struggled with grief, fear, confusion and isolation. They could see bits and pieces of this new creation represented by the Risen Christ, but what did it all mean?

After a life changing moment in our lives, it is not unusual to go through a time of great confusion, denial, numbness—all those feelings that go with being lost. As the days go by, the layers of defense we use to absorb such a moment are stripped away. And then, usually in the most unexpected way, triggered by something beyond us, the enormity of what has happened breaks through, we face directly into the depth and width of what has happened, what has changed. We can no longer avoid living in a new real. We are pointing directly into the wind. We are more stripped of artifice and defense than we normally allow ourselves to be in the face of our creator. It is chaos where risk and opportunity are inextricably bound to each other. It is a sound like the rush of a violent wind, it is a fire that consumes, it is a moment that feels like death and the beginning of life all rolled into one. It is chaos. No wonder we want to turn on that puny diesel motor again and play it safe. No wonder we stand there gripping the wheel for dear life, with our hearts in our mouth.

I believe that the passage from Acts describes that moment when those scared and disoriented friends of our Lord were finally able or were finally forced to point directly into the wind. Hiding out and waiting to see what would come next was no longer a viable alternative. I love that Luke sees the humor of it—even in this most transcendental of moments, Peter is reassuring folks that the faithful aren’t drunk. At our most vulnerable and lost—or found—we’re still worried about keeping up appearances aren’t we?

In this passage, we already see the outlines of what happens when the puny power of our own fears and expectations, our own aspirations and limitations looks upon the face of God. The possibility of overcoming estrangement and misunderstanding is breath-taking. The discovery of gifts and abilities we did not know we had exhilarates and energizes. The promise of a completely new life begins to be fulfilled.

In comparison to the Book of Acts, the Gospel passage appointed for today has more of the feel of what happens in that tiny fraction of time when you turn the wheel a few degrees, the sail fills with wind and you start moving forward. "Peace be with you… Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, "Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you." Turning off that motor, accepting the strength of the wind, following a path we cannot see, leaving a wake that quickly disappears, we are in harmony with the winds of God, which means we can also find our rhythm with all creation.

Turning into the wind, Jesus friends learned something new about the love of God through Christ. They also discovered their vocation and gave birth to the Church, which for all its foibles and failures, is still the place where so many of us have learned about the absolute, eternal, all-possible love of the One who created, redeemed and sustains each and every speck of creation.

What about us? When was the last time we allowed ourselves or were forced, both as individuals and as All Saints, a small branch of the True Vine, to point into the wind? Today we haven’t just had a history lesson. We too have been called. Learn to trust something beyond that puny little diesel motor of yours. Point into the wind. Receive the Holy Spirit. Live. Love. Amen.

Mother's Day Sermon....NOTtag:typepad.com,2003:post-496664502008-05-10T11:03:01-04:002008-05-10T11:03:01-04:00Just got back from the doctor w/ LoML. On Wednesday, her dad took her to the doctor for some routine follow up on the meds she takes. She was getting over a cold but everything was clear in her lungs....Rosa Lindahl
<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p>Just got back from the doctor w/ LoML.&nbsp; On Wednesday, her dad took her to the doctor for some routine follow up on the meds she takes.&nbsp; She was getting over a cold but everything was clear in her lungs.&nbsp; So they decided to give her four vaccines.&nbsp; Bad, scary ouchies and lots of guilt on my part when she looked at me with those big brown eyes of hers and told me her daddy &quot;held her &quot;duro&quot; (hard) and didn't say, &quot;ya, ya, ya&quot;--the soothing sounds all Latino mamas know to make in one of those moments.&nbsp; &nbsp;She was puny on Thursday morning so we kept her home.&nbsp; By the afternoon she was running high fever.&nbsp; A quick call to our beloved Dr. D was reassuring:&nbsp; not unusual with that many vaccines but if the fever continues for more than 48 hours, she needs to be seen.</p>
<p>So, when this morning at 2:00 AM her fever was at 103.7, I said another prayer of thanksgiving for our amazing Dr. D who has office hours on Saturday morning.&nbsp; LoML has pneumonia.&nbsp; Probably, her defenses were down anyhow and the shots made it worse.&nbsp; A little lower oxygen saturation and she'd have been hospitalized.&nbsp; Spouseman's going out of town tomorrow or the day after.&nbsp; I have an absolutely hellacious work week ahead.&nbsp; And I'm the preacher tomorrow morning which means I am up at the crack of dawn to celebrate at the 8:00 AM service.</p>
<p>Any lovely motherly kind of sermon is out the window.&nbsp; No mother's day sermon for me, no sirree.&nbsp; I'm going to focus on being one instead...and then preach about the winds of God.&nbsp; I'll post my sermon tomorrow.</p></div>
The hour has cometag:typepad.com,2003:post-494002222008-05-04T20:12:28-04:002008-05-04T20:12:28-04:00Several months ago, I began to post about a new liturgy we were introducing in my parish--the Vineyard Eucharist. It was an effort to respond to feedback and observation that the traditional choral Eucharist failed to reach out and minister...Rosa Lindahl
<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p>Several months ago, I began to post about a new liturgy we were introducing in my parish--the Vineyard Eucharist.&nbsp; It was an effort to respond to feedback and observation that the traditional choral Eucharist failed to reach out and minister to our families in ways that drew them in closer, helped them strengthen and well as be strengthened by our life in community.</p>
<p>Every now and then, the pieces have come together and this new liturgy has offered moments of lovely grace.&nbsp; But not always, maybe not even often enough.&nbsp; A couple of unexpected challenges have made it even harder.&nbsp; And now, the tug of my ministry with the Centro is pulling strongly, suggesting that it is time to let go of my role in support of family ministries at the parish.&nbsp; So today, we celebrated our final &quot;Vineyard Eucharist&quot; at least for now, as we enter the summer/growing season.&nbsp; I heard a comment that made me feel sad and glad all at once.&nbsp; Someone said, &quot;you know, today is like that last game of the season in Little League.&nbsp; Finally, finally, everything is working right, the team is really in sync--and it's still the last game.&quot;&nbsp; Yup--and <em>Dang</em>! I'm glad to go out on that note.&nbsp; Sad to let go. A little bit wiser and less naive about everything that must work for a new liturgy to receive the breath of new life.&nbsp; More than a little apprehensive to move on not by force but by choice.</p>
<p>Again, today, even though I am sorting through lots of thoughts and feelings, I am grateful not to have to &quot;process&quot; all this with Spouseman.&nbsp; I got home before him and Light of My Life.&nbsp; They were out deep sea fishing and when they came in, they had that wind blown, happy, hot, satisfied with themselves look, even though they had never even gotten a bite.&nbsp; They jumped in the pool to cool off and on the spur of the moment, I jumped in the pool too, clothes and all.&nbsp; LoML was thrilled.&nbsp; Sabbath time...</p></div>
How You Know You Love Someonetag:typepad.com,2003:post-493367922008-05-02T16:21:43-04:002008-05-02T16:21:43-04:00We have not talked about work for the first 24 hours of his sabbatical. I was scared it was going to be hard. It isn't, at least not right now. Things about our work have been at the tip of...Rosa Lindahl
<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p>We have not talked about work for the first 24 hours of his sabbatical.&nbsp; I was scared it was going to be hard.&nbsp; It isn't, at least not right now.&nbsp; Things about our work have been at the tip of my tongue several times and I've let them just float away.&nbsp; None of it is that important, anyway.&nbsp; Last night, a friend came and hung out with Light of My Life while Spouseman and I went out for a nice dinner, a martini for him and a mojito for me.&nbsp; Then we came home and watched almost 3 hours of &quot;Carrier&quot;--a rather astounding mini-series produced by PBS about life on an aircraft carrier deployed to the Persian Gulf..</p>
<p>Only rarely do I get a glimpse into the parts of my husband that were shaped by being a gunship pilot in Vietnam. I can look in his eyes and look at the beautiful young men and women who are pilots on the Nimitz and know that he is in them, and they in him.&nbsp; Warriors.&nbsp; I watch his mirth at the antics.&nbsp; At one point, the camera was focused on the back of a young man wearing a pair of pants way down low--I mean way down low--with the words &quot;crack kills&quot; written on them.&nbsp; Had time folded back and captured a moment in my husband's past? Spouseman just rolled with laughter while I dissolved with love and amusement looking at him so identify with that young man.&nbsp; </p>
<p>Watching all that life in the midst of combat and war unfold over those three hours made me feel close to him in a way that working with him--even concelebrating--does not.&nbsp; &nbsp;I fell asleep last night wondering at the mystery of loving someone I <em>don't </em>have to love, who doesn't even necessarily need my love or always accept it.&nbsp; But who has made a commitment together with me, to make &quot;us&quot; real.&nbsp; He was he, I was I and we were us for the first time in a long time.&nbsp; </p>
<p>Sabbath time...</p></div>
So how hard is this????tag:typepad.com,2003:post-492970522008-05-01T17:46:37-04:002008-05-01T17:46:37-04:00Spouseman and I work together. In fact, Spouseman is my boss as the rector/sr pastor of the parish we serve. Today, he began a 3 month sabbatical. The first after more than 11 years with the parish. He hugely needs...Rosa Lindahl
<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p>Spouseman and I work together.&nbsp; In fact, Spouseman is my boss as the rector/sr pastor of the parish we serve.&nbsp; Today, he began a 3 month sabbatical.&nbsp; The first after more than 11 years with the parish.&nbsp; He hugely needs to get a complete break.&nbsp; I will be super busy, dealing probably with more than the usual.&nbsp; So I cannot come home and talk about work.&nbsp; AAAARGH!&nbsp; I know I can do it.&nbsp; Just hard and wierd to think about.&nbsp; A friend did give me one suggestion: imagine work is a jacket.&nbsp; Imagine there's a hook on by the front door (on the outside).&nbsp; Leave the jacket on the door when you come in.&nbsp; That's what I'm going to do...</p></div>
Them that have eyes will see...tag:typepad.com,2003:post-491499002008-04-28T21:17:38-04:002008-04-28T21:17:38-04:00Two faces of hope: G is a young man from the highlands of Guatemala. He has a beautiful mouthful of teeth alternating with gold pieces so his wide smile literally glitters. He is barely making it as an undocumented person...Rosa Lindahl
<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p>Two faces of hope:</p>
<p>G is a young man from the highlands of Guatemala.&nbsp; He has a beautiful mouthful of teeth alternating with gold pieces so his wide smile literally glitters.&nbsp; He is barely making it as an undocumented person but even this was better than being a sharecropper in Guatemala where the exploitation and abuse is even worse.&nbsp; His prayers during our weekly Bible study brought tears to my eyes.&nbsp; Faith in the midst of hunger--real, physical hunger.&nbsp; He is determined not to give up...</p>
<p>J is our long-term seriously alcohol addicted brother.&nbsp; A street person, he is neither clean, nor sweet smelling nor lovely to behold.&nbsp; Sometimes our small community gets offended when he staggers in to the Eucharist and conks out.&nbsp; He is also our evangelist to the Latino street community, a tough evangelist though.&nbsp; He's brought others to the Bible study before and then run them out because he didn't think they were doing right (and they really weren't).&nbsp; Today he brought A.&nbsp; A asked me to share my glasses with him so he too could read our Scripture passage. When we were finishing up for the evening, A dug around in his backpack and found a half-spoiled mango.&nbsp; With old-world courtesy, he gave it to me. When we'd finished our study, J took me to one side and said he thought this one could come back--what did I think?&nbsp; I said, of course. </p>
<p>When I let my blue funks get the best of me, there is so much I don't see.&nbsp; I am grateful for each time I am willing. I pray for more willingness.&nbsp; &nbsp;</p></div>